The Clairvoyant
by MantaCat
Summary: Harry sets out for the next great adventure, and finds the journey there a bit longer than anticipated. Lost and listless, Harry drifts from dream to dream in search of meaning. Along the way he receives help from an eclectic group of individuals who seem more than a little concerned about his grasp on reality. Just what does it mean to be a Master of Death?
1. King's Cross

**Summary: Harry sets out for the next great adventure, and finds the journey there a bit longer than anticipated. Lost and listless, Harry drifts from dream to dream in search of meaning. Along the way he acquires help from unlikely sources. What exactly does it mean to be a Master of Death?**

 **I am writing this primarily because there is a special place in my heart for Hagrid, and I enjoy feel-good stories. So this story will hopefully contain plenty of that.**

 **This is a bit of a prologue. I don't know how long each chapter will end up, since some I have more planned for some than others.**

 **As ever, Harry Potter belongs to J.K., and I profit from neither the creation nor distribution of this fanfiction.**

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 _Master — noun._

 _1.) "A man who has people working for him, especially servants or slaves."_

 _2.) "A skilled practitioner of a particular art or activity."_

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Harry stood before the train — the same train he'd looked upon after facing Voldemort's wand. Around him stretched King's Cross, empty and white, save for the pained whimpers drifting out from beneath a bench farther along. Harry knew without looking that it was Voldemort's horcrux.

It didn't particularly matter how or why Harry had ended up back at the station, or even how long it had been since his last visit, because he was there now, and there was nothing to be done but board the train and see where it took him. He pulled his cloak tight around him, and Harry was grateful he wasn't nude, even if he was starkers underneath, and strode towards the open doors of the train. The whimpering grew to wails, and the smack of flesh against a hard surface, but Harry refused to turn. It was beyond the help of men.

As he stepped up onto the express, Harry felt something swing into his leg. Reaching into his invisibility cloak, Harry felt a stone and a wand. He didn't bother removing them. As he passed the window on the door of the first compartment, Harry caught the reflection of his floating head. _Seventeen_ , he thought, pausing to examine himself briefly, it was the only age that sounded close enough to how he looked which made any sense.

Harry wandered along the corridor until he found an open compartment. It might have taken a few minutes, or maybe an hour, he was feeling rather apathetic at the moment, really. _The next great adventure_ , Dumbledore had called it, and Harry _was_ curious, nervous, excited, afraid, and everything else he expected one felt after having once again died, but greatest of all, Harry felt adrift. Perhaps, Harry mused, he was in shock.

Regardless, he found an open compartment, walked in, shut the door behind him, sat down, and looked out the white window at the white Platform 9¾. The train gave a shudder, and then with a groan it jumped forward once. A moment later it picked up again and began heading out. Harry watched the unbroken white expanse of the station fall slowly behind, until there was nothing but whiteness left and the glass of the window might have just as easily been a wall panel.

He fiddled with the stone and the wand in his pocket for a while, not removing either from his pocket, but eventually the rocking of the train caused Harry's eyes to droop and his head to nod forward.

It wasn't until he woke that Harry even realized he'd fallen asleep. He looked about for a moment, taking in the white of the compartment, and trying to catch the wisps of a dream that had already slipped away. He stared out the window for a bit, and fiddled with the edge of his invisibility cloak. He wasn't particularly board, indeed Harry had a feeling reminiscent of patiently waiting for something, and he experienced no urge to get up or leave his seat. Days, minutes, hours, weeks, they had no purchase here and the window never grew dark or his stomach empty. He never felt particularly tired either, but with the gentle rocking of the train his only stimulation, Harry soon found himself drifting off once more.

He was washing dishes at the Dursleys. The sink was rather high, and he had to reach up before he could bend his arms down to snag a dirty plate. The water was scalding, and the disinfectant soap was quick to point out the scratches on the heels of his hands. Harry took a moment to look around and take in the colours. It was a bit overwhelming, but certainly not unwelcome. The smells to. And the sounds. Aunt Petunia walked in, looking younger than Harry could remember seeing her outside of photographs. She scowled and snapped something at him that Harry was too distracted to hear. Her scowl deepened, and with what must have been apparition, or perhaps just a jump in his dream, she materialized in front of Harry and smacked him hard over the head. As if she'd hit a switch, Harry's attention snapped into place and her words took form.

"Ungrateful, useless, just like your mother—" And she grabbed a fistful of Harry's hair and turned his face back to the sink. His scalp smarting, Harry picked up the abandoned sponge and reached up and over into the sink to grab the next plate.

He woke from the rhythmic scrubbing of dishes to the rhythmic rocking of the white express and blinked several times to readjust to the bright, scentless, and near-silent compartment. Had he just dreamt of the Dursleys? The memory was quickly fading, but Harry was near-certain he had.

Harry looked at the window for a minute or perhaps a month, then ran his fingers over the white cloth of the compartment bench. He tapped the wood of the wall to hear the sound, and then did the same to the window. He wondered what he was waiting for, but the only answer was the rocking of the train.

He was in the Dursley's lounge. Uncle Vernon stood over him, face purple and mustache twitching. He looked moments away from an explosion. Harry was distracted however, by a light flashing in his peripherals, and turned to find it was the television. When was the last time he saw a tele? Suddenly pain erupted in Harry's side, and he fell to the floor with the force of the blow.

"...Your unnaturalness around my son!" His uncle was yelling, and then he reached down with two meaty hands and grabbed Harry's arms just below the shoulder and shook him. Harry's head snapped backwards, and heat blossomed in his neck from the sudden motion.

"I'm not—" Harry began, but with another shake he bit his tongue and the taste of copper flooded his mouth. Uncle Vernon half-lifted and half-dragged Harry to the cupboard under the stairs and tossed him in. He elbow knocked into the back wall and set his whole lower arm on pins and needles. He heard the click of the lock, and his uncle's heavy footsteps receding.

He sat still until something brushed against his hand, and Harry squinted down to see a small spider crawling across his finders. Taking this as his cue, Harry leaned back against the wall of his cupboard and listened to the sounds of Privet Drive.

When the rumble of cars ceased and the sound of the tele and the refrigerator grew comparatively loud, Aunt Petunia let him out to help make dinner. He sat and peeled potatoes, then chopped and boiled them into his aunt's stew.

"Now you need to stir the potatoes! Do you hear me, boy? Make certain the potatoes are stirred. If you don't stir the potatoes…" Each step she repeated five or six times at the beginning, and then continued to remind him every few minutes to stay on task. Harry couldn't specifically recall another time his aunt had ever been so repetitive in her instructions, and yet he got the sense this was a regular occurrence. It was strange, and Harry played with the notion like He would worry a loose tooth.

Eventually dinner was completed, the table set, and Uncle Vernon and Dudley called to supper. Uncle Vernon was angry with him for some reason or another, so Harry got some cold soup, a trip to the lou, and was sent to his cupboard.

Harry woke with a great deal of disorientation and flailing. Somehow, despite having always slept sitting propped up against the white wall of the compartment, he had expected to wake laying flat. The movement of the train did little to help him catch his balance. Although he didn't feel stiff, Harry took a moment to stretch and pop his neck. He rubbed at it for a moment, idly checking for a crick, then shrugged and turned towards the window to repeat the cycle of waiting and sleeping.

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 **AN: Well there it is — my first chapter! I honestly thought it would take me more words to cover what I needed to, but I felt like I got everything that needed to be there written in, so we'll see. What do you think? There should be less switching between the dreams and the train after the first few chapters, but I hope the way I handled it flowed smoothly.**


	2. Privet Drive

**Chapter 2: Privet Drive**

 **Okay, so here goes the second chapter!**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

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Harry slept off and on. Sometimes he caught snatches of his dreams, and other times they evaded him entirely. All the dreams he could remember featured either Private Drive and the Dursleys, or his primary school. Neither was particularly pleasant, and although Harry wouldn't go so far as to call the experiences nightmares, he made an effort to stay awake for greater stretches of time. Seeing as he was somewhere outside of time, however, this endeavor proved entirely futile. So it was, Harry found himself once again drifting off.

He was in the Dursley's lounge, and in front of him sat a circle of pinch-faced women — Aunt Petunia's book club.

"— Not right in the head," Aunt Petunia finished saying with a flustered wave of her hand. Harry didn't need to hear the beginning to know what she was getting at. The story was an old one. But instead of his aunt continuing with a list of his juvenile misdeeds, one of her posy cut in with a sharp nod.

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean," the woman huffed, "I saw it right away of course. You can always tell you know, the one's that aren't all there. It's in the eyes." The rest of the circle nodded dutifully along, but Harry barely took note. _In the eyes?_ He wondered. He'd never heard anything like it, Harry was certain. Impudent, certainly, striking, occasionally, but vacant? With a jolt he realized this was a dream. It was strange, being aware he was dreaming, while he was dreaming it. He looked around, trying to spot anything abnormal about the room, maybe a door that had never been there before or something even stranger.

"—ry. Harry!" Harry's head snapped over as Aunt Petunia's voice broke through to him. She gave him a rather intent look, locking her eyes on his and not letting them veer for a moment, "Go upstairs to your room, Harry. I'll be up once the meeting is over. Go up the stairs, and into your room," she gestured along with the words, and Harry, taken aback at the thought of having a room (how old was he in this dream? Had he already started at Hogwarts?) didn't think to so much as pull a face at her behavior. Instead he turned on the spot and made his way up the stairs and over his cupboard to what was once Dudley's second bedroom. It was strange seeing the door without any locks on it, but Harry didn't really process that they were missing until he opened the door and found the room filled his cousin's broken toys. Well this couldn't be his room then, Harry thought, so he turned around and made his way back down the stairs and into the lounge.

One of the book club ladies waved her hand to flag Aunt Petunia as soon as she spotted him. Her head whipped around, and then his aunt was rising from her seat with a strained smile. She grabbed him by the shoulder and with a tense "Come along, Harry" pulled him from the room and up the stairs. Instead of taking him to Dudley's second bedroom, however, she hauled him into the bathroom and admonished him to stay put this time.

Harry occupied himself searching the dream-bathroom for anything strange, but when he couldn't spot anything he moved on to take a quick shower and brush his teeth. Why not?

Eventually Aunt Petunia's guest left and she let him out of the bathroom only to shove him straight into his cupboard. After a while Dudley, and then finally Uncle Vernon came home. Harry could hear his aunt relaying his misdeeds to her husband in a shrill voice, and knew before his Uncle unlocked the door that he was in for it.

Indeed, when he came for him Uncle Vernon's face was bright red, and he grabbed a fistfull of Harry's shirt to drag him into the hall. Harry's elbow collided painfully with the wall and his ankle twisted as Uncle Vernon brought him by the shirt collar into the lounge. Harry still hadn't caught his balance by the time his uncle let go, and toppled unceremoniously to the floor.

"How _dare_ you disturb your Aunt's guests!" his uncle began, "making a show of your— your— _freakishness_ and soiling our reputation!"

"She told me to go to my room! But I don't have a room, do I!?" Harry yelled back. His Uncle Vernon's face turned positively purple.

"Of course you don't have a room you ungrateful—"

"I'd hardly call a cupboard generous," Harry snapped, knowing how this lecture ended. The lights flickered in response to his flaring magic, and Uncle Vernon's eyes near burst from his face. Aunt Petunia gave a shriek that cut off as quickly as it came.

"W-what was that?" Dudley emerged from the top of the stairs and hustled down. He was young and round, and lacked all the muscle he gained boxing later in life. His appearance seemed to goad Uncle Vernon on to greater anger.

"Go back to your room, sweetums," Aunt Petunia said. At the same time Uncle Vernon ordered Harry to "Stop that funny business" and Harry, feeling rather uninhibited inside his dream said something very, very stupid. All his memories of mistreatment at the hands of his relatives came flooding to the forefront of his mind, and with it came barely restrained rage.

"Make me." And all the picture frames, flower vases, and knick-knacks in the lounge began to rattle.

Uncle Vernon's face turned dark, as a shadow Harry couldn't remember seeing before seemed to fall over his expression. He took one large step forward, bent down to grab Harry by the shoulder, and hit him in the stomach. He didn't swat or bat or swing at him lazily like Harry remembered, but with his whole arm and shoulder slammed into Harry's gut. It hurt. Harry had only a moment to feel a flicker of fear before a second blow came, and then a third. His uncle let him go then, and Harry, whose magic was still very prevalent in the room caused the light to flicker a second time.

"I said _make it stop!_ " Uncle Vernon roared, but Harry's magic was now being fueled by his fear, and he couldn't reign it in. He heard the window rattle.

Then Uncle Vernon was coming after him again, fists swinging, and Harry took a step back. His foot caught on the leg of his oversized jeans, and he began to fall backwards.

Harry woke up suddenly, and with a strong sense of vertigo. He had definitely just dreamed about Uncle Vernon beating him. He sat frozen for a moment, trying to recall every last detail he could of the nightmare. Why would he dream up _that_? Of all the horrific experiences Harry'd lived through, getting pummeled by Uncle Vernon wasn't one of them. Was it? Could Uncle Vernon have beaten him like that as a kid and he'd just forgotten? If so, why remember it now? He rubbed his stomach in phantom pain, and turned to watch out the blank, white window of his compartment.

Harry's strange dreams about the Dursley's continued. Sometimes he remembered knowing he was dreaming during the dream itself, and other times, he was only aware it had been a dream after the fact. Most dreams he could only retain snatches of — a sense of rain on a window, or Aunt Petunia's over-sprayed perfume — but every now and again he could recount one with startling clarity. One such dream began, as expected, in Number Four Privet Drive.

Harry came into awareness at the sound of his aunt knocking on the cupboard door. He wandered out, to find the house bright, with long shadows stretching from the windows in a way that told him it was morning.

"Come make breakfast. The bacon needs frying. Come fry the bacon," Aunt Petunia said, and Harry drifted into the kitchen. Seeing his aunt standing there, putting on a pot for coffee, struck Harry as so routine, that with a strange lack of surprise, he realized he was dreaming, and that he'd watched this routine play out countless times in his sleep. Although he also recalled his aunt making him help with breakfast as a child, the memories were faded and blurred, and distant. This dream, however, came with a powerful sense of deja vu and recentness that struck an entirely different chord within him.

Harry went through the motions of making breakfast like he was humoring the dream by complying, or maybe like it was a role in a play he'd performed one too many times. Soon Uncle Vernon tromped down the stairs, followed closely by Dudley.

"Go get the mail, boy. The mail needs to be collected, so go grab the mail," Uncle Vernon said the same way Harry knew he must always be saying, and Harry walked into the Hall to the front door mail flap.

The mail sat in a pile on the floor before the front door, and Harry knew suddenly and quite certainly that in all his previous dreams he'd bent down and scooped it up, looking to see if this was a dream about his first Hogwarts letter. It wouldn't be, and then he'd feel disappointed and shuffle back into the kitchen to wash dishes and eat a piece of dry toast.

He was rather tired of this dream, Harry decided, he wanted to dream something else. He looked about for a moment, but everything was perfectly normal and familiar. His eyes fell back to the pile of letters on the ground, then, slowly, they drew up to the light peaking through the mail flap of the front door, and continued up until they settled on the doorknob. What would happen, Harry wondered, if he opened the door?

Slowly, and as quietly as he could so as not to alert the Dursleys, Harry twisted the lock and turned the handle. He nearly jumped when the door opened to a sunny, crisp view of Privet Drive. He'd half expected the door to turn into some kind of portal to another, different, dream. Maybe he had to step through for that to happen. One socked foot edged past the door frame and onto the first step. The concrete was chilled and rough beneath his toes. A second foot followed, and then a third and fourth step carried Harry away from the awning. Well this was different. It was Privet Drive, entirely familiar, but it wasn't, because this was a dream and anything could happen. Harry felt a giddy surge in his chest at the thought of exploring, and set out along the street. Maybe he could walk all the way to Diagon Alley.

With that thought in mind Harry turned his feet towards London and set himself for a long trip. It didn't take long for his stomach to begin complaining, seeing as he'd skipped breakfast. He'd hardly made it out of the neighborhood before his feet began to protest as well. His socks had managed to collect quite a bit of dirt and some small, sharp, rocks, but Harry decided to leave them on. Instead, he jumped to pull some leaves off the next tree he passed and slid them into his socks against the bottoms of his feet to add a bit extra padding and continued on his way.

As the sun grew higher, Harry found his way to a park and a water fountain. He sat down on a bench to restuff his socks with leaves and found a new hold in the heel of the right one. He wrapped the leaves more carefully in that area so they wouldn't fall out, then stood up to continue his journey. The sense of adventure had waned, but in its place was a rising sense of determination to reach Diagon Alley and steer his dream into the wizarding world.

The sidewalk grew hot as the day progressed, and Harry stopped at several more parks to try and fill his stomach with water in the absence of food. When the shadows became long and the street lights switched on, Harry realized he wouldn't make it to London that day, and when he reached the next pack he curled up on a bench. The air was brisk, but not cold, and he leaned his head against his arm and closed his eyes.

Harry woke gently to the rocking of the train and cast his eyes blearily over the white compartment. His dream had smelled like summer, he decided, in the absence of the express.

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 **AN: Please review!**


	3. Mrs Figg

**Chapter 3: Mrs. Figg**

 **I'm not very skilled when it comes to writing action scenes. This chapter gave me much more trouble than I anticipated. I also haven't seen Fantastic Beasts yet, but while fact checking came across some things that seem rather similar. Please don't leave any spoilers in reviews until I've seen it!**

 **Disclaimer: When pigs fly.**

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After that first dream trying to walk to London, running away from the Dursleys became a regular feature in Harry's dreams. He was certain now, that if he could only make it to Diagon Alley, he could break free from the recurring dreams of Privet Drive.

Most dreams involved simply walking off in the right direction — although he did usually think to put on shoes now — and either falling asleep in the dream part way there, or getting collected by a police officer and escorted home. In one particularly vivid dream, Harry had tried to convince the officer he lived in London, but she had merely shaken her head and told him he lived on Privet Drive in Surrey and had escorted him back there twice already in the last month. She had driven him back to Number Four and given Aunt Petunia a stern talking-to about keeping an eye on him before leaving. That dream had ended with a particularly vicious thrashing from Uncle Vernon.

Slowly, as Harry's mind wandered and his head began to bob with the rocking of the train, the white walls of his compartment blurred and transformed into a yellower, dirtier hue. It took Harry a moment to orient himself, and realize he was standing with his head tilted all the way back; looking up at the Dursley's kitchen ceiling.

His relatives sat at the table eating what looked and smelled like breakfast. None of them were paying Harry any mind, so as quietly as he could, he began sliding along the wall towards the hall. Once he was out of the line of sight of his relatives, Harry made his way towards the front door and the shoe rack. He slipped his over-large second-hand sneakers on without needing to so much as bend over and reached for the front door. He turned the deadbolt, flinching a bit at the distinctive _click_ and paused for a moment to listen and see if anyone heard. When nothing happened he pulled the door open and slipped out.

The street was not empty. Mrs. Figg from Wisteria Walk was shuffling past in her slippers with an empty shopping bag and several cats trailing behind. She looked right up at him and Harry remembered, quite suddenly, that Mrs. Figg was a squib and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Here, Harry thought, was his way into Magical Britain, not Diagon Alley.

He rushed down the walk to her, and the old woman took a step back in surprise.

"Mrs. Figg!" Harry nearly burst out with, "You have to help me! I need to—" but the rest of Harry's words were cut off by a loud bang as the door to Number Four flew open.

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon thundered, "GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!" His face was purple, and Harry saw his fists were white knuckled and shaking. Dread pooled in Harry's stomach. He was in for it now. But only if his uncle got ahold of him. With that thought, Harry spun back to Mrs. Figg and grabbed her sleeve.

"Please Mrs. Figg I can't go back there I—" but again Harry was cut off as Uncle Vernon grabbed him by the arm and yanked backwards.

"Mr. Dursley!" Mrs. Figg exclaimed, punctuated by Mr. Tibbles' hissing, "Just what is going on here!?"

Uncle Vernon was too angry to answer. His lips were pierced tightly together, and combined with his purpled face it looked like it was all he could do to keep from bursting there on the front lawn. Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for Harry, Aunt Petunia had emerged close on his heels and intercepted Mrs. Figg, allowing his uncle to drag him back inside. Dudley scramble back from the door to let them pass, trailing after to watch the events unfold.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to will himself awake. Now was when dream became nightmare. He felt Uncle Vernon's hot, wet breath hit his face, carrying the smell of bacon and greece.

"Now listen here, you freak," Uncle Vernon growled, "mark my words. Do you hear me boy? Do you hear me!?" He shook Harry violently when he didn't answer right away, and Harry clenched his jaw tighter to keep from biting his lip or tongue. Uncle Vernon smacked him hard across the face.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry bit out between his clamped teeth.

"I put a roof over your head. Food in your stomach. Clothes on your back—"

"Sometimes," Harry hissed under his breath, but not quietly enough it seemed, for the next thing he knew he had his uncle's fist in his stomach and absolutely no breath left in his lungs. The room gained a draft, lifting Harry's hair off his face and the nape of his neck. Uncle Vernon's tie flapped about against his chest.

"Stop that! Stop that funny business!" He grabbed Harry by the hair and gave his head a shake. Harry, who was still coughing from the last blow, gagged, and the room began to rattle.

"Stop that this instant I said!" His uncle gave his head another firm shake and Harry both felt and heard his neck pop. He let out a strangled cry at the same time a picture frame shook its way off the mantelpiece and shattered on the floor. Dudley shrieked and Uncle Vernon punched him again. His glasses fell off his face and his uncle became a blur. "I'm warning you boy!" Uncle Vernon's hand squeezed painfully tight around his arm, "And I won't warn you again! No. More. Funny Business!"

Harry tried to will his magic back down, but his efforts were futile. His heartbeat sped up, and he began to shake. Uncle Vernon let go of his arm, and holding Harry up by his hair punched him a third — or was it fourth — time. Harry heard something crunch and knew it must have been his glasses, crushed beneath his uncle's feet. Without even the hope of retrieving them now Harry felt his breath grow short in panic.

Something else rattle off a shelf and crashed to the ground. Why couldn't he make it stop? He could never make it stop! The draft became a whirlwind, and somewhere a door slammed. Harry's heart rate spiked to even greater heights. The magic built. Why couldn't he control it?

All around him Harry could hear things crashing to the ground, and somewhere in the storm of his magic he heard Aunt Petunia's cry of "Vernon!" but the rest was swallowed by the chaos.

This had never happened before, and Harry didn't know what to do. Why couldn't he ever make it stop? Why did he always— never— always—

Harry's thoughts ground to a halt. It was as if he had reached the eye of his own magical storm, and for a moment could breath. He'd never lost control like this before, had he? Sure, Harry had bursts of accidental magic as a child, and had a few instances where he lost control and made things rattle around a bit, but not like this, never like this… but he felt like he had. He couldn't shake the thought of _always, always, always_ , and all at once the contradiction clicked into place in Harry's mind.

He was dreaming. It was just a dream. Nothing more. And just like that the storm passed.

He couldn't see the destruction, of course, since his glasses were in pieces somewhere, but he could hear his uncle's heavy breathing off to one side, Dudley's terrified whimpers, and Aunt Petunia's hushed "My— my lounge! My— lounge!"

Uncle Vernon was the first to regain his composure. Harry heard glass crunching under each of his uncle's heavy steps, and then there was a fist in his hair and he was dragged out of the lounge and thrown unceremoniously into his cupboard. The lock clicked shut behind him.

Harry sat numbly on his cot. Muffled through the door he heard Aunt Petunia ushering Dudley outside and then starting to clean. Uncle Vernon whispered something to her, and she mumbled back, then his heavy steps moved through the hall and the front door opened and closed. Then Harry heard the car door opening, closing, and the motor starting up before fading into the distance.

He didn't know how long he sat in the cupboard, listening to the tinkling of broken glass as his aunt swept up in the other room. It could have been minutes or hours, but he was startled back into awareness by the shrill ringing of the doorbell. He heard a short cry and a thud from the lounge, and concluded his aunt had dropped her broom. Several tense moments passed without any other sound, and then the doorbell rang again.

He heard Aunt Petunia's footsteps move into the hall, but instead of passing his cupboard by they paused for a moment before continuing.

The door opened, followed by his aunt's cry of " _You!_ " Harry sat up straighter and instantly regretted it. His stomach and neck flared with pain, and he quickly slouched back down into a more comfortable position. There was only one person he could think of that would get that response from his aunt. Harry grinned. Dumbledore had come for him.

"Might I come in, Mrs. Dursley?" the Headmaster asked, "I received some most disturbing news, and think it would be wise that we move indoors to discuss it." There was no response save the door closing moments later.  
"Come and see what that boy has done to my lounge," Aunt Petunia said, and two sets of footsteps moved past him into the lounge. Harry couldn't catch the next part of the conversation, and moved forward to press his ear to the vent.

"— most of time as if he's in some kind of trance, unless he's having some kind of fit of course. We can't keep him. The boy's disturbed, I tell you," came Aunt Petunia's voice.

"...trigger of some kind… traumatic experiences?" Dumbledore was much more soft spoken than his aunt, and Harry could only hear a word here or there. It was calming, hearing the Headmaster's voice again, and Harry felt himself relaxing against the door. The idea of calling out flickered briefly through his thoughts, but Harry trusted Dumbledore to find him, and if it seemed like he was about to leave Harry could call out then.

Harry woke up to the swaying of the train, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the whiteness of his compartment. He quickly started retelling the dream to himself, hoping to make himself remember, but by the time he got to Dumbledore showing up, the rest had gone fuzzy. Harry hoped he wouldn't have to repeat running into Mrs. Figg over and over again like he did with the walking to London. Uncle Vernon's temper had not been pleasant, nor had his own loss of control over his magic.

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 **AN: Please review (but no FB spoilers yet please!)**


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